


From the City of Smoke

by azarias



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Heralds of Valdemar Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cultural Differences, His wife? A horse, Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Telepathy, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azarias/pseuds/azarias
Summary: The nation of Albion lies on the southeast border of Karse. With its strange language and stranger customs, it's as far from Valdemar as Herald Thomas Hamilton has ever been - and somehow, he has to make friends. But when Thomas meets a rising star in the Royal Albion Army, his mission becomes about more than politics and patriotism.Valdemar's future is at stake.  And so is Thomas's heart.Updates when I feel like it. Happy ending not guaranteed. Ending not guaranteed. Porn eventually, probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TMI: An unexpected, unprecedented, and just fucking annoying downturn in my health has eaten my ability to write. I have five interesting and reasonably well-written fics sitting half done in Google Docs, waiting for its return. In the meantime, I remembered I started this thing, and it seems stupid enough I might be able to manage. Or not! Maybe I'll disappoint us all! If you see my brain, please throw things at it to scare it home.
> 
> Not betaed, because why.
> 
> This started as a horsefucking joke and here we are.

The first thing James learned about about the folk of Valdemar was that they considered subtlety a sin and held decorum in deep suspicion. Consider, for example, their ambassador.

Lord Hamilton was ridiculously tall and bare-headed in the afternoon sun, his blond hair and his stark white clothes both fairly glittering in the light. Before James could make it up the stairs to the embassy door, Lord Hamilton came bounding down, his hand outstretched in friendly greeting. "Hello. You must be the man the army promised me."

James had come prepared for a bow, not a handshake, but shuffled his hat to his left hand quickly enough. "Yes, my lord. Lieutenant James McGraw, Royal Albion Army." Lord Hamilton's hand was rougher than he'd been expecting, calloused from some exercise. Perhaps the ambassador was a swordsman.

"Thomas Hamilton," Lord Hamilton said. "Herald Thomas, if we absolutely must be formal. I'm afraid I can't stand to hear 'my lord' from someone I'll speak to nearly every day."

"Yes, sir," James said noncommittally. 

One of the ambassador's strong hands clasped him on the shoulder and ushered him up the stairs. "I'd like to meet with you tomorrow morning," Lord Hamilton continued, "after whatever breakfast time is customary for you. The house is rather crowded at the moment, so I think we should get to know each other in quieter circumstances. This is just a general meet-and-greet opportunity, letting folk come to ogle the new exhibit. I doubt I'll even have time to introduce you to my Companion today."

He let James precede him through the door, which gave James an instant to cover his surprise. He hadn't been informed there was an ambassadress — and, surely, the man hadn't brought his doxy on embassy? Not that James would blame him, if he had. The capital could be a lonely place for a single man, even if he wasn't far from home. But still, there were conventions.

Down a short hallway, and a liveried servant opened another door to a large parlor stuffed with people. James handed his hat and uniform coat to the servant and caught his breath. Late summer still clung to the city, weeks from harvest time, and any cooling effect the building might have had was overwhelmed by the number of people present. Meeting the first Valdemaran ambassador to Albion, it seemed, was today's popular ticket. That it didn't smell like sweat and body odor was a testament to the ventilation or the bathing habits of the ambassador's guests, or both.

Lord Hamilton didn't merely abandon him to the crowd, though James recognized a few of them — one or two, he could even engage in polite conversation and genuinely enjoy it. Instead the Valdemaran guided him by his elbow around the perimeter of the room to where a sandy-haired man stood in conversation with two ladies. Catching the ambassador's eye, the man made a polite exit from the discussion and came near to James and Lord Hamilton.

"Peter," Lord Hamilton said, "let me introduce Lieutenant James McGraw, my liaison to the the local military. James, my friend Peter Ashe, from Valdemar. This embassy owes its very existence to Peter; you and I will be working with him closely in coming months."

"My lord," James said. This time, he was given the chance to bow, and Lord Ashe didn't correct his address.

"Lieutenant McGraw," said Ashe, "I believe I've heard your name before. Son of a farrier, come up from the ranks?" 

James' back stiffened at the question, but he thought he managed to keep it off his face. Lord Ashe's gaze was assessing, but his tone might not be mocking, laden as it was with that lilting foreign accent. Even if it were, reacting would not improve matters. Instead, James merely nodded. "That's correct, my lord. I have been fortunate in my advancement."

Ashe's lips quirked and he turned to Hamilton. "Oh, you'll like this one, Tom, I can tell you now. They say he has a library in his head; a habit of reading and thinking deep thoughts the young bravos find most unsettling."

Keeping anger from his eyes was easy for James, the fruit of long practice. But some of his body's signals were beyond his control, such as the damnable flush he could feel creeping up from beneath his neckcloth as that suppressed anger roiled in his chest. He hadn't expected this assignment to be easy, but had thought perhaps he'd be granted the courtesy of not being humiliated on the first day. He would not, could not, slug a man in an embassy at afternoon tea, though his fist itched to meet Ashe's round, pampered face.

Hamilton's eyes, though, were wide and bright, blue and invitingly cool in the overwarm room. The man looked like a child who'd received an unexpected present. "Oh, excellent!" he exclaimed. "I've mostly learned your language from books and Peter's letters. I didn't have the opportunity to meet many native speakers until we crossed the border from Hardorn a few weeks ago. No one's quite laughed in my face yet, so I assume I did a decent enough job learning, but there's cultural context I'm missing that I'm sure would shed light on some passages that confused me."

The smile was genuine, the eagerness in his voice unforced. James felt his ire withdrawing in sheer surprise as Hamilton babbled on in his enthusiasm for literature. "I've been making my way through the works of Gallian, and in _The Light of Sacred Reason, As Providence and Prudence Come to Flower_ he argues that love of self and love of country are inseparable, that, both being defined by borders in the physical realm, they are kindred in the spiritual realm as well, and the most reliable means by which a man may distinguish himself. I noticed, however, that this was published around the same time as Braedshaw's _High Home_ , which discusses nomadicism's role in your nation's founding and draws a spiritual connection to overcoming or moving beyond borders, before arguing this natural state was disrupted by, ah, I'm fairly certain the word he uses means 'civilization,' though I believe he's also making a pun I haven't quite grasped. Are these reflective of a conflict between two wider schools of thought, and if so, what the more recent literature facing those issues might be like."

James didn't answer immediately, mostly because his initial thought, that Gallian was a blowhard and Braedshaw was a wonderful poet but piss-poor historian, and that the two had famously killed each other in a drunken duel over a woman, seemed dismissive. And dismissal was not deserved by a man who seemed to expect not only that a farrier's son come up from the ranks had indeed read those not inconsiderable books, but that he would have opinions on them worth hearing. 

Ashe simplified the matter by taking Hamilton's elbow and tugging him lightly away, toward the center of the room where the population was thickest. "I'm sorry, Thomas, but I have orders not to let you buttonhole anyone with philosophy today. You'll have plenty of time to throw your questions at the Lieutenant when my lady _isn't_ expecting you to entertain your guests."

"Ah, yes," Hamilton said, a look of faint chagrin replacing the open eagerness on his face. "Well, Lieutenant, as we say in my country," and a lilting string of foreign syllables rolled off his tongue. He held out his hand, which James shook again, mechanically.

From the way Lord Ashe choked and tried to hide it, that had been an insult. The warm feeling that had been overtaking James subsided. Testing to see if he secretly knew their language? Or having a joke at his expense? Possibly both. Well, he'd weathered insults before, and he couldn't even tell what this one meant. And he was no spy, damn them — some of the servants likely were, but that was the way of things in Londillen. James had no stomach for that dirty business.

"I look forward to beginning my work in the morning, my lord," James said, his posture gone stiff and straight again, and told himself he didn't see disappointment cloud over Hamilton's blue eyes.

*

The last guest gone, the house allowed to go blessedly cool with the setting sun, Thomas walked into the little drawing room off the parlor and sat down on the sofa next to Peter. Funny; he'd spent much longer periods on his feet, done much harder work, but dancing through all the undercurrents in this parlor this afternoon had left him footsore. 

"How did that go, from your perspective?" Thomas asked his friend.

"Generally very well," Peter said. "Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, and I don't believe any new scandals were hatched. You understand, of course, this today was the fashionable set — younger sons and a few outre heirs, as many mistresses as wives. The real coup will be when you can convince their fathers to attend." 

"Mm. A goal to work towards. And what do you make of my liaison?"

Peter set his teacup down on its saucer. "Everything I said about his reputation was true, though I didn't mention he's also known to have a temper. But — 'I want to count your freckles with my tongue'? Really, Tom."

Thomas shrugged. "Had to be certain. If he's to be my watchdog, I need to know in general terms how dangerous he is." He smiled and had a sip of his own tea. "Besides. You know Heralds aren't supposed to lie. I could scarcely claim the thought _wasn't_ going through my mind."

 _:Incessantly,:_ Miranda assured him.

"Ha," Peter said. "Your catholic tastes. But, Thomas, be careful with these outlanders, will you? You may have diplomatic immunity, but in the lieutenant's army they hang men for that. He could make things difficult for us, if he decides to take offense."

Thomas's hand clenched around his cup, the humor draining out of him. Trust Peter to kill a moment. "I know," he said. "I know. I think I've memorized your dispatches." 

Peter had been in this place nearly three years, trading as a merchant and laying the foundation that made Thomas's mission possible. His reports in that time — reading them had been disheartening. Not just the facts and figures that showed how far ahead Karse was at gaining influence here, but worse in some ways were the cultural observations that made clear just how vast the gulf was between Thomas's people and these whom he had to befriend. 

Peter shook his head. "I'm sure you've studied diligently, but that doesn't mean you _believe_ it. I know you, old friend. You have a very hard time accepting most people really are just as bad as they seem."

"Yes, well." He looked down unhappily at his delicate ceramic cup. "If we're having this conversation, I'm not doing it over tea." 

'Tea' in Valdemar meant any of a thousand drinks made from herbs steeped in hot or cold water. Nearly every household had its own secret blend, but they all were soothing and comfortable and to offer a cup to a visitor was to request he stay awhile. Here in Albion, 'tea' meant one very specific drink that was served hot and tasted mild, but which had some strange effect on the nerves. It made him jittery. 

He looked around at the bottles on the shelves, frowning at being unable to recognize any of them, but Peter rescued him.

"Here," he said, striding over and confidently pulled down a bulb-shaped bottle with pale gold liquor in it. "Local specialty, you had best get used to it. They brew it from those prickly odd plants that grow out in the western desert. You can find them potted in the flower market, though gods alone know why. I managed to kill three of them before I gave up trying to keep one."

Thomas threw back the rest of his tea and held his cup out. Peter splashed some of the liquor into it, then did the same with his own cup. Thomas's cup wound up rather more full than Peter's, he noticed.

That was an — interesting smell. He brought it closer to his nose to try to get a better sense of it, and his eyes started to water. 

Peter sat back down beside him and put the bottle on the floor between their feet. "Like I said," he offered, "you get used to it."` He raised his cup in salute, and took a sip.

Thomas followed suit and tried not to taste it. He failed, but his tongue went numb soon after, so it was a self-limiting problem.

"Well," he gasped when he could, "that's different." Before he had time to think about it too much, he refilled his cup and drank again, to force his body to accept it. That was how he'd gotten through the most painful exercises from the Collegium's armsmaster, and it served him just as well now.

Peter was laughing at him, so at least one of them enjoyed the experience.

Licking his lips to get them clean while his sense of taste was still stunned, Thomas slumped back against the couch, his arms spread across its back. This wasn't the kind of evening he and Peter could get shit-faced and wind up on their bellies on the floor, cheating outrageously at chess as they'd done when they were younger men. Maybe they'd outgrown it, and never would again. 

He'd been quiet too long; Peter had stopped laughing, and Thomas thought the introspective look on Peter's face was probably mirrored on his own. "Do you think it's hopeless, Peter?" he asked quietly.

Peter looked away, but shook his head. "I — don't know. It depends on your goals, I supposed. This is an excellent place to make money; I appreciate the caution in that fat privy purse you brought along, but I could probably pay for the whole embassy out of pocket, with a little luck and some economy.

"The reason there's so much money to be made is the Albionese will trade anything with anyone. That river that runs through the city is like a fat highway for commerce, and they say it's navigable all the way to the sea, a thousand miles to the south. Caravans stream in from the east and the west, converging here to meet the boats. It doesn't pay to be overly scrupulous in what passes through the city." Peter looked at him frankly. "What does the king expect you to do here?"

Thomas trailed his fingers along the thick brocade that upholstered the sofa. The fabric was beautiful, but ornate, red and gold and orange; in Valdemar it would be too expensive and too gaudy for everyday use on furniture. 

He said, "Brythan believes that force of arms hasn't brought us peace with Karse, so it's time to try a new tact. And, Peter — I think he's right. This war we're fighting, it ebbs and it flows, sometimes it goes quiet for whole decades and it _looks_ like peace. But it was being fought when Brythan's mother was on the throne, and his grandmother, and _her_ father, and on and on through centuries where nothing seems to last. We may only fight for a few years at a time, but in aggregate we've lost whole generations. Lives, progress, joy, all the good things that make Valdemar real, not just lines on a map. We can't keep going on.

"And it's not just us, it's Karse that suffers, too. Every time we meet their armies in battle, a little more hope is lost. How do you make peace with the nation that killed your father, left you a widow? Trampled your crops and let your children starve? Their fire priests — every time we push them back, they feed more of their _own people_ to the fire, and the people let them do it. Because they're more afraid of _us_ than they are of burning to death."

He made an open-handed gesture at himself, at his white uniform. "This is what a demon looks like, in Karse. It comes on a white horse and it destroys everything in its path. And gods help us, they're not wrong."

The vile cactus liquor was making his head feel too heavy on his neck. He sighed and propped his cheek up on his hand, looking at his friend. "So what the king expects me to do is to find another way. We can't afford to stay isolated, with concerns that reach no farther than our own borders. Rethwellan and Hardorn have treaties with us, but they only promise nonaggression. They don't want to provoke Karse against themselves. 

"With us up in the northwest corner of the world, the mountains and the Pelagiris at our backs, and no one knows if there even _is_ anything on the other side of those — if Karse ever convinces our neighbors that trade with us is itself a provocation, we'll be cut off. No way to import grain in bad years, nowhere to raise coin to keep the army equipped. No news of the world beyond what our spies can bring us. That is how Valdemar dies. And the only way to stop it is to make friendships of our own, and trade as far and wide as we can, so that the rest of the world will miss us if we go. And if we can ratchet down the supply of materiel to Karse, that will give us more of a chance, too."

He felt the phantom press of a warm, broad side against his back, the scent of fresh-chewed grass caressing his face. Miranda, giving him strength to face the task ahead.

Peter frowned down at his empty teacup, as if disappointed it offered him no guidance. "When the message came that you were to head the embassy," he said, "I was ... surprised. I didn't think you'd be the one they sent, because of, well."

Thomas smiled wryly. "The enforced multi-year dry spell? I'm a Herald, Peter. I go where I'm needed. I'm not much use in a fight and I am good with languages, so the place I'm needed most is here. We all make sacrifices to serve the kingdom. You have. Not being able to get laid for a while isn't so bad in the grand scheme of things." He snorted, easily amused with the strong liquor in him. "Besides, it might not be entirely hopeless. Just because something is illegal, doesn't mean no one does it."

The door from the parlor opened and a slim, raven-haired woman slipped inside, dressed in a day dress of Valdemaran blue. "There you are," she said, smiling at the both of them but most brightly at Peter. "Hiding from the clean-up?"

Peter levered himself to his feet, and Thomas was amused to note how carefully he set the teacup down atop a doily on the table by the couch. "Only out of prudence, my dear Dorothea," he assured her as he went to take her hands. "I know not to interfere in the business of experts, and you have the servants here well in hand." 

"That's the flattery I've missed," she said, and she blushed prettily when her husband kissed her hand. Being separated from one's lover for as long as Peter and Dorothea had — was it any wonder their eyes rested on each other every chance they found?

Peter tucked her to his side and looked back at Thomas, serious and intent. "Tom, thank you. For bringing my family to me. I don't think I've said that yet."

"It was no trouble, Peter. Quite the opposite. If Lady Ashe hadn't volunteered to act as hostess for the embassy, well, imagine a grim future filled with me trying to organize parties by myself."

"Would the essays be mandatory?" Peter wondered. "Or might one recite a poem extempore in lieu for admission?" 

Dorothea poked him in the side, which Thomas smiled to see. He had gotten to know his friend's wife much better on the journey from Haven than he ever had before, and it had taken some time for her to lose her formal reserve around him. 

"Miranda wants me to tell you both that Abigail is a perfectly sweet child and is welcome any time. You can take that as a request, by the way. Abigail spent half the trip riding double with me, and they were both happy as pigs."

Abigail, six years old and ready to see the world, had taken exactly two days to lose her awe of being near a Companion, and Thomas had left the inn to see her tentatively stroking Miranda's nose while Miranda puffed happily at her tunic. Well before they crossed over into Hardorn, she'd claimed her own space in his saddle and begun unselfconsciously chattering questions. Thomas had seen his status drop from intimidating Herald, to mere adult authority, to translator. Even in Valdemar, so many adults hesitated to believe that a Companion both could and would engage in conversation, but set a child loose on one and they'd quickly have a four-legged interlocutor, Mindspeech or no Mindspeech. 

Privately, Thomas suspected even that last wouldn't be a barrier to Abigail forever. A few too many times to be coincidence, Miranda had laughed and Abigail had giggled at the "tickles." Gifts hardly ever came into full bloom before puberty, and some wouldn't awaken until and unless the Gifted person was Chosen, but there was no harm in a sensitive child learning to trust her instincts.

Soon, Dorothea and Peter bade him goodnight, and he walked them to the embassy door. "Take those cups to the scullery," Dorothea reminded him firmly. "I'll know if you don't."

"Yes, my lady," Thomas said, and didn't doubt her.


	2. Chapter 2

James' customary breakfast time was around dawn in the city and whenever he could get it in the field, but he dawdled in his boarding house until the sun was high enough for richer men to be awake.

At the embassy the same servant took his hat and coat, but then told James the ambassador was in the back garden. He took the short way through the house and walked back out into the morning sun, blinking at what he found.

The 'back garden' was a vast, walled space that must once have provided produce for the house, and probably all its neighbors, too. It had to be at least two acres, longer than it was wide, absolutely enormous for a property in the city. No sculptures or ornaments, though there was something lovely about the plain marble fountain at its center, where water flowed clear and inviting. Instead of structure, the overall impression was of a lush, barely-tamed meadow bordered by ivy that softened the tall red brick garden wall. Here and there the ivy was cleared around a flowering bush or an espaliered fruit tree that clung to the wall; some of them were heavy in season. It smelled of blooming lilac and fresh-trampled grass.

No ambassador in evidence.

At the far end of the field was a building like a large shed, wood-built and recently painted in bright yellow. Even an eccentric was more likely to be inside the shed than hiding in the grass, so James strolled toward it.

It was pleasantly quiet back here, the busy noises of the street muted by the house and the tall garden walls. With a shade put up, the area around the fountain would be cool even in the hottest weather; the walls would block the worst of winter winds.

Closer to the shed, he could see the building itself was new, not just the paint. The ground was still disturbed from its construction, and its windows were bright and clean, large and clear to let in the light. Windchimes were hung somewhere invisible under the eaves, surrounding the shed with the soft sound of bells. It had a double-wide door, like a barn, and James was only a little surprised when two goats came trotting out, baahing mildly. Behind them came the ambassador, wearing a workman's castoffs and carrying a carpenter's hammer, his pale face flush with exertion.

Pacing sedately beside him was the most beautiful animal James had ever seen.

She was seventeen hands if she was an inch, silver and white. _Pure_ white, not painted or dappled, shining in the morning sun. A groom must have been at her with brush and comb since dawn. She was deep-chested, her ribs well-sprung, with room for a champion's heart and lungs. Bigger than a horse he would choose for endurance work, but then, a man as tall as Hamilton would want a mount to match. Her thick legs and flat knees, wide nostrils and solid jaw, spoke of an animal who could move her weight and her rider's across rough ground for miles, if he could bear to drive her through mud and brush to mar her perfect coat. For all her size and power, she was intensely, unmistakably feminine: shapely the way a fang was shapely, graceful the way a blade was graceful. 

An unseen breeze stirred the hidden windchimes, a swell of music that echoed off the walls, filling the garden as if a choir had snuck in at his back. The horse stepped forward. James had the sudden, insane image of a lady offering her hand. Every instinct the army and polite society had drilled into him screamed for him to respond, but he no idea which part of the hoof he was supposed to kiss. 

She snuffled at his hair.

James blinked and the music ceased. It had been — only a moment. It was broad daylight and he was standing in his boots. He wasn't waking from a dream. The ambassador was smiling at him and the ambassador's horse was sniffing him over, her breath sweet with hay.

"Good morning, James," Lord Hamilton said. "Meet Miranda, my Companion."

Delighted, James reached up to stroke her forelock. She _was_ pretty, wasn't she. And soft, coat like satin beneath his fingers. Well-trained, the way she'd followed Hamilton so attentively. Hamilton put a hand on her side, absent but fond, while James' hands followed the strong lines of her muscle more purposefully, instinctively assessing her form like one of his own cavalry mounts.

"You know," James confided to Hamilton, "when you mentioned your companion, I thought you meant a lady." _One who charges by the hour._

Hamilton cocked an eyebrow. "I did. As you can see." 

James laughed, but Hamilton didn't. Hamilton simply looked at him, steady and calm, and a tingle of foreboding stilled James' hands. 

"James — Lieutenant," Hamilton began, "I want our working relationship to be an equal partnership; I want us to learn from each other. To do that will require trust. I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to at least accept it, even if you don't yet manage to believe it. Miranda is not a horse. She is a person, and more than that a Companion of Valdemar. Her reason is at the very least a match for yours and mine, and she is as much a part of this delegation as I am. She and I speak mind-to-mind as easily as I am speaking to you now. I am one of my king's Heralds because she Chose me to be one, not the other way around."

Ah. Not eccentric, then. Just mad. James had been sent to manage this, or to be made a fool of.

But. 

Hamilton spoke madness with such conviction. Of course, many madman did so; believing their delusions was what made them mad. But his eyes were clear and focused, intense but not raving, and just then, when the creature had walked up to him, James had _felt_ …

James looked into the face of the horse, whose eyes were as blue as her rider's. That same calm certainty looked out at him. 

"I guarded some Karsite prisoners one night," James said. To the horse, to Hamilton, to the summer air — didn't matter. Something in the air itself shifted, went tense. "Half a dozen of them, bandits; we were hanging them in the morning. We got to talking. 

"These were hard men, deserved what they were getting, but they weren't afraid of death. Were just happy we'd agreed to wait so they could die in daylight. Supposed to make it easier for them to find their way to heaven, whatever heaven welcomes their kind in. Still. I couldn't blame them for not wanting to sleep away their last night alive. 

"What they _were_ afraid of, though, was this story they told. Every one of them swore it was true. About things that happened way up north, the reason they'd deserted from their army and run all the way to Albion to steal. About why death by hanging wasn't something that worried them, because there were worse things out there."

For those few hours, through that long desert night speaking with dead men, he had felt that fear. Somewhere out there in the star-strewn dark, demons moved. It had felt real, with all the belief of the condemned behind it. He'd been, what, nineteen? Wet behind the ears and desperate to prove he was a man, prove he was worthy of the ensign's badge on his jacket. Trying so hard not to be afraid that he could think of nothing else until the sun rose and they hanged.

The horse, he noticed, had moved so that she was between him and Hamilton. One blue eye watched him, blinking slowly.

"Demon horses," Hamilton said quietly, across her back.

"Demon horses," James agreed, "with damned souls riding them." The sweet smell of lilac was overlaid with something dusty and hot, like ozone pushed before a storm.

In dirty worker's motley, Hamilton didn't much look like a ghost. But in that white-on-white he wore the day before, on a white horse who could — talk to him? Know him? Move precisely with him, two beings with only one heart and purpose, the kind of unity a cavalry officer trained his whole life to achieve and never did, because it was just a romantic fantasy: horses didn't care for much beyond fresh mash and a warm stable, and everything else they did was just to earn that. 

A white rider on a white horse that wasn't a horse, and whatever other uncanniness went with them. Yes, that might be enough to break a brave man.

James made a choice.

Carefully, moving slowly so that she could see, he laid his hands on her withers, and with that touch came the memory of bells. The crackling unseen energy in the air lessened, drained back into the earth.

"They were idiots."

Hamilton shook his head. "No. Just wrong."

James may have fallen to a madman's persuasion, but it wasn't in him to do a thing by half. This time, he addressed the mare. "Well, my lady. Welcome to Londillen." He looked back at Hamilton. "What's she saying now?"

Hamilton shrugged, looking wry. "'Thank you.' And that I could have lead up to that a bit more."

Miranda tossed her head and gave a horse snicker when her silver mane caught both of them in the face, then moved away so that her great bulk was no longer between them. The goats rushed back to her, bouncing in circles about her feet.

Hamilton had slipped the hammer into a belt-loop, which was a relief. The man liked to talked with his hands and James would rather not be responsible for the ambassador cold-cocking himself in a moment of exposition.

"I'm sorry for meeting you in such a state," Hamilton said, brushing back his sweat-damp hair. Suddenly he was smiling, as if he hadn't broken James' perception of the world once already today. "I wasn't certain when you were arriving, and Miranda wanted some modifications made to her quarters. They were designed for, well, a horse."

Hamilton eyed the goats doubtfully. "There was some confusion. Evidently the factor arranging the property learned the stable was being built for a single occupant and had a rather strong response to the idea of her being alone …"

"Horses are herd animals," James murmured. The goats had their foreheads together and were taking turns shoving, evidently the goat way of striving to impress a lady. "They sicken if they're made to live alone."

"Well. Miranda says she likes the idea of having pets."

Hamilton clapped his hands together. "What shall we do today, James?"

"I'm at your disposal, my lord."

"Lord nothing," Hamilton said. "I'm just an heiress's excess younger brother. Please, try to call me Thomas?" 

Gods, but this man was dangerous. One entreating look and James was speaking to horses and expecting a reply; another and he felt compelled to let this man make him a friend. He nodded. "Thomas."

Hamilton smiled and — oh.

This wasn't the neutral expression of a diplomat whose job it was to charm, nor the mere habit of a good-natured man who expected to be well-met. _This_ was sunrise and the day's beginning, spread across his face and crinkling his eyes, suffusing every weathered line with warmth.

A very dangerous man.

"Well, then, James. Miranda and I have barely had a chance to see the city. Feel like going for a ride?"

"Ah, I walked."

"The embassy has horses." Hamilton looked around as if expecting one to appear, then shrugged, unconcerned. "Somewhere. Someone inside will know. I'll have to make myself presentable before we go. Let me show you the library — I could use some advice on what it's missing."

James followed him across the garden, amused by how natural it felt to be swept along by a madman.


End file.
